A Present For My Dear Friend Watson
by DwightK.Schrute
Summary: Sherlock discovers that an article he wrote about Watson has been published in the paper, so he gives it as a present to him, with friendly intentions in mind. John has more than friendly intentions, however. JW/SH Rated T
1. Holmes Has His Ways

**I intend to have two chapters of this, maybe three if I decide to write pr0ns, but that is not my strong suit so don't get your hopes up **

**Warning: Further chapters contain hints of JW/SH, so if you don't like then don't read, noob. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or its characters in any way, shape, or form.**

A sliver of sunlight escaped through a crack in the dark, heavy curtains that covered the windows, bringing a small patch of light to an otherwise dark room. At first it was merely a tiny splash on the floorboards, but as the day wore on it shifted, until it was several feet to the left where a particular detective was lying his head. The light landed on his face, and the burning orange against his eyelids was what woke him.

One tan, ink-stained hand rose to shield tired, sore eyes from the offending light, and Sherlock shifted against the papers he had fallen asleep on, the very ones he had been writing furiously on the night before while in his cocaine-induced frenzy. He pulled a piece out from under him to examine his findings, only to be met with complete gibberish. Perhaps more cocaine would put him in the state he was in last night so he could remember what any of this meant- at the time, it had all seemed very important.

Just as Holmes was making to get up, the door to his apartment was flung open, and in marched a certain good-hearted doctor, who just so happened to be his best friend.

"You are a phenomenal idiot," Dr. John Watson spat, standing over Holmes' still prone body.

But the real nature of their friendship was debatable, since relationships were always changing and at the moment, Watson was being a bit inconsiderate, really. He walks in to find his best friend lying on the ground in a sort of daze, and all he does is call said friend an idiot? Holmes was quite hurt.

"What, exactly, am I being accused of here?" Holmes said, his voice slightly slurred. He managed to sit up, ignoring the heaviness of his limbs.

"Oh, maybe the fact that you are apparently just coming out of a severe drug black-out," Watson said offhandedly, "but also because we were supposed to have lunch with the Inspector today to talk over our latest case, and you never showed! We waited for nearly two hours, Holmes!"

The detective opened his mouth to ask what he meant by "our" case, considering that Watson hadn't wanted anything to do with it in the first place because it would be an insult to Mary and their new marriage or something or other, but found himself stuck on the sudden time issue. "Two hours? Watson, what time is it?"

"It's two o'clock," Watson said, glancing at his watch. "Why? Does the time of day somehow affect the apology you have yet to give me?"

"No, but I happen to know where our criminal is now, at this precise time, because I had it down in my notes," Sherlock said, grabbing a random paper from under him. "But I suppose it can wait, because I need time to formulate your apology so it is sincere and conveys precisely all that I want you to know."

"Nevermind that!" Watson snapped, smacking the paper out of Holmes' hand and hauling him to his feet. "Where's the criminal? What's his name? How do you know?"

"It is not a he, but a she. Her name is Marie Leclaire, she is currently at the opera house getting ready for tonight's show, and I know because the man that was murdered was carrying a gun, which he did not fire, and I can only assume it's because said gun was not a real gun but a prop gun, meaning the man was a stagehand for the opera and was blackmailing Leclaire because she also killed her understudy, who was a far better singer and on the verge of stealing her part."

Watson stood in awe once the torrent of words stopped spewing from his friend's mouth, trying to piece together the pieces of an already-solved puzzle.

"What are you waiting for? Go find Lestrade and apprehend this fiend before she gets jealous and kills someone else!"

That seemed to be enough to get Watson going again, and the doctor raced out of the room like his coattails were on fire- but that had only happened once, when one of Sherlock's experiments went terribly wrong. Once Watson got past the door, he peered back in at Holmes, who was still standing where he had awoken.

"Aren't you coming with?"

"Why would I? I already know I'm right, and Lestrade and his gang of endearing half-wits that he calls his subordinates should be able to apprehend her. Besides, like you said, I just awoke from a cocaine crash, and I think I need to lie down."

"Right," the competent doctor said. He pointed a finger in Holmes' direction. "Don't think I forgot about that apology. Oh, and you should formulate one for the Inspector too." He bounded down the stairs and out the building, leaving a pouting Sherlock in his wake.

"What are you, my nanny? Only that shrewd, sad excuse of a landlady is my nanny," he said obtusely. With a huff, he bent down to pick up his papers, thinking he should try to decipher them before taking some more drugs- that last round was still haunting him. He honestly couldn't remember for the life of him what he had done to Gladstone this time, as the dog lay in the corner of the room, drooling buckets.

The scribblings bore no insight as to the workings of his drugged-up mind, but one of the pages of newspaper it was written on, which he had neglected to read, had a very eye-catching article. It was not a front-page article, and was merely a small blip on the page it had been placed, but the fact that it was in the paper at all was monumental.

The article was titled "A Daring Doctor Saves The Day," and it was by Hemlock Shores. In actuality, it was written by Sherlock Holmes himself, and it was about his doctor companion who wrote about their adventures, but whom put more emphasis on the detective than he did himself. It was more than a one-time article- it was he beginning of a series of writings about Watson that Holmes wanted to publish in appreciation, and in acknowledgment of their bond which surpassed friendship and delved it brotherhood.

Sherlock hurried over to his desk, grabbed a pair of scissors, and cut the article out. His eyes caught sight of an old picture frame of Watson's that contained an image of his mother, which just so happened to also be a perfect size for the article. He switched the picture out, and admired the newly-framed article that he would give to Watson. The old boy would surely put it on the desk of his office, and show it to every patient that came in, announcing fondly that it was written by Sherlock Holmes himself.

The detective placed the present in one of the drawers of his desk, intent on giving it to Watson later, and went to call out the door for the nefarious and often absent landlady to bring him some blasted tea. He sat down in the chair he pulled up by the fireplace and went to close his eyes for a moment, but ended up dozing off entirely.


	2. By The Fireside

**Thank you for the comments, I appreciate every last one! Also, feel free to help me correct any grammar and spelling mistakes, I actually wrote this whole thing up on my Ipod Touch when I was out of town and am just now going back and making edits, but it's inevitable that there will still be some mistakes.**

**Anyway, here's chapter two!**

**Warning: Slight JW/SH in this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the series Sherlock Holmes or any of its characters and such and such **

After following Lestrade down to the station to make sure Ms. Leclaire was locked up properly for the committing of the two murders, John Watson thought to go home to Mary, his wife, and enjoy the rest of the afternoon with her. But then he remembered that she had gone to visit her sister after a terrible spat they had this morning, to think about the direction their relationship was going, she had said. Watson would not be surprised if he received divorce papers by the end of the week, after what he had confessed to her.

The doctor was, however, surprised that Holmes had not picked up on his bad mood, and deduced there were problems in paradise, as he had expected the nosy detective to. Perhaps Holmes' mind had still been scrambled by the drugs, or perhaps Watson wasn't acting nearly as upset as he thought he was. The end of one's marriage was a grievous event, and yet, John did not find himself grieving at all. In fact he felt... Relieved. Very relieved. But certainly he did not mean the words he had said to her. He had said those merely to hurt her, like she had hurt him by flirting with that other man, Mr. Mallory, claiming that she wasn't getting enough attention from her husband.

Why had she said she wasn't getting enough attention? Because Watson was spending more time with Holmes. Surely that wasn't the truth. And if so, certainly John was only doing it because the two were friends, and he was worrying about the other man's well-being in light of their separation.

Yes, John Watson was most definitely not in love with Sherlock Holmes, like he had said to Mary's shocked face this morning. That had been a slip of the tongue, or a misuse of words. He had most positively only meant that he cared deeply for Holmes, and was concerned.

After such an eventful morning, John wished for some down time. But he didn't want to go home to his empty house, where he would not relax, but think some more about the fight he and Mary had had, and all that it meant. No, he would go and spend time with Sherlock, and make sure the man did not accidentally kill himself.

When he arrived, Mrs. Hudson was coming out of the room, shutting the door softly behind her. She motioned for Watson to be quiet, telling him the detective was sleeping, but that if he really wished to stay, there was a tray of tea sitting in the room, neglected.

"And Mary told me you would probably be staying here," Mrs. Hudson said, her face sympathetic. "If that is the truth, Dr. Watson, then I am terribly sorry."

John merely nodded, feeling his face go red with embarrassment, and maybe anger over Mary's revealing too much. The landlady left, none the wiser to the true nature of their conflict, and John entered the dark, gloomy room, trying to compose himself.

After his eyes adjusted to the increasingly darkening room, Watson went over to the table to pour himself some tea. He did not see Holmes on the floor again, and suspected the man had gone back to his bedroom to sleep, so he went over to the fireplace, intent on lighting it to bring warmth and light to his surroundings.

Once the fire was going, John turned around and faced the chair, desiring to sit by the fire and perhaps read some literature, when he was met by the sleeping form of Sherlock. It looked like rather uncomfortable position, as he was curled up in the chair, his legs dangling over one side and his face resting on the opposite armrest, but judging by his soft snores, he must have been comfy. His dark, luxurious hair was in a truly unruly state, his face was smudged with ink, his clothes rumpled from being slept in, and long dark lashes rested against slightly gaunt cheekbones, hinting at the fact that Sherlock hadn't eaten in a day, or two, or three. Despite being a mess, the man was still quite handsome.

John shook his head, realizing he was staring and being rather awkward. He made to walk back over to the table and drink some tea quietly, but in his haste bumped into a stack of books, sending them sprawling loudly across the floor. He cursed and looked down at Holmes, who was now looking back up with large, inquisitive brown eyes.

"Sorry, old friend," Watson mumbled, offering an apologetic smile. "I thought I would light the fire to warm the room, and-"

"Watson," the detective interrupted, suddenly springing up. He ran a hand through his messy hair. "How did the arrest go?"

"Ah, quite well, actually. It seems the woman had already resigned herself to being caught. Unfortunately the opera is no longer opening tonight, since there is no understudy to replace her. It is being delayed another two weeks, until they can find a new lead and get her well rehearsed."

"Just as I had expected it to," Holmes said. He went over to the table, and picked up Watson's filled cup, probably knowing quite well that it was his but not caring to pour his own. "I was going to buy us tickets to see that opera, old boy, but it seems I was justified in putting it off."

His eyes lit up suddenly, and he set the cup down again, without even taking a sip. He ran off into the other room without explanation, and Watson thought to retrieve his cup before the man came back, but was too slow in his revelations, as Sherlock came dashing back into the room a moment later, picture frame in hand.

"This is for you, doctor," Holmes said, his formalities and the way he presented the frame suggesting that he was quite proud of whatever it was. "I found this in yesterday's paper, and thought you might like to have it. It was published by myself, as you can see by the pseudonym. I hope you don't mind, but I couldn't find a good-sized frame, so I used the one that housed your mother's picture."

Watson directed a look of disdain in the other man's direction at the utterance of that last part, but accepted the frame nonetheless. He found that the article, although rather small, was written about himself, and his contributions in a case they had worked on recently. It put him in a good light, and downplayed Sherlock's deductions to focus more on the doctor's bravery in swiftly and thoughtlessly pulling an ailing woman from a burning house, that had been exploded by a bomb placed by the crook they had apprehended. He had then saved Sherlock himself, after hearing from the woman that he had been in the house conversing with her.

"I know it wasn't necessary, and I know you are a better writer out of the two of us, but I really wanted to show my thanks," Sherlock said, staring not at John, but at a spot above his head- he really wasn't good with conveying his emotions. "I hope to make this a weekly tribute, as you are my friend, and at times under appreciated."

John swallowed hard, feeling his heart swell. He could have broken the frame, with the fierce grip he had on it. "Thanks, Holmes. It really means a lot to me."

The dark-haired man offered him a smile, one of the few genuine ones he rarely gave. John couldn't help hugging him then, throwing his arms around the shoulders of the shorter man and pulling him against him. As it was Sherlock was a bit stockier, and although Watson was taller and leaner, he was still as sturdy, having been a soldier and being one to keep up his fitness.

"Ah, well, yes, this is a tad too close for my likings," Sherlock said, patting John on the back awkwardly. "You know how I am about these things, and I would appreciate-"

"Mary left me this morning, Holmes," John admitted, still holding his friend.

"Oh," the other man mumbled. After that he remained silent, not exactly being one to offer guidance or condolences, but that was just as well with Watson- he didn't like hearing those things, and wasn't always one to share about himself, despite how open he was. He was merely content to hold somebody.

And kiss them, apparently. With no warning to Holmes or to himself, he pulled back, but with one look at Holmes' attractive features, played upon by the firelight, and his dark, lustrous eyes, Watson grabbed him again by the shoulders, but this time smashed their lips together. John licked at the lips that his were pressed against, and when he got no response, he pressed his hard body flush against the one beneath him, earning a gasp, and entrance to the warm, delicious cavern that was Sherlock's mouth.

It only lasted a few seconds, however, as Sherlock turned his head suddenly away, and John was left kissing his neck. The dark-haired man mumbled something, causing John to stop in his administrations.

"What?" he asked breathlessly. He was slightly lightheaded, and his pulse pounded in his ears.

"I said," Sherlock started again, facing Watson this time but looking off into the corner, "this is all rather sudden and I don't know what to think of it."

Watson felt crushed. But why? It wasn't as if he were being rejected for anything. Still, he couldn't help feeling that his heart had been deflated, by the sharp pin that were Sherlock's words.

"Alright," Watson said, letting his arms slide from around his friend, and fall stiffly back at his sides. "Then think about it."

The doctor stuffed the frame containing Sherlock's article inside his coat, refastened his scarf, and gave his friend a pat on the shoulder before turning to leave.

But before he could take another step, a hand latched on to the sleeve of his overcoat, stopping him in his tracks.

"Wait," Holmes breathed. There was a long silence, that seemed to stretch on forever, but was really only a few seconds if the ticking of the clock were any indication. "Stay. Watson, I want you to stay."

Said doctor felt a grin creep across his face, and he yanked off his scarf- the blue and brown one, the very first one Mary had made for him- and let it fall to the ground.

"With pleasure," he murmured.


	3. He's Not Really At Ease

**This is it—the third chapter I think I promised. If not, I wrote it anyway. It's a bit short, I think, and leaves something to be desired, but I didn't want it to go too far.**** I don't know if this is what you guys were looking for, but I sure hope so, because it's the best I could do! I hope you enjoy.**

**Warnings: Definite JW/SH in this one, no doubt about it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or any of its characters, but right now I really wish I did.**

Sherlock felt as if his stomach had twisted itself into knots as Watson turned around once again, his face alight with some emotion that the detective could not decipher. He suspected of its nature, however, having seen it on the faces of the few women he had laid with. But this was no woman- it was his best friend, his other half. He had never had even an inkling of romantic interest in Watson.

But at the current moment, Holmes felt that something had changed. Their chemistry had shifted as soon as the fair-haired man had laid his lips upon Sherlock's, and those sharp blue eyes, which stared at him now in such an intense manner, suddenly told very clearly of which plain their relationship had traversed onto.

It had been foolish to stop John from leaving. Sherlock was not ready for this. His heart pounded like a jackrabbit in his chest, and he felt a surge of emotions that he was not ready for, nor that he was entirely sure he wanted in the first place. But to send Watson home now would doom their friendship. And Sherlock couldn't risk such a loss- he had no one else. John could very well go back to Mary, and never speak to the detective again.

So as Watson stepped forward again, shedding his coat and hat and letting his cane clabber to the floor, Holmes tensed, but stood perfectly still. And as John pulled him close, and reclaimed his lips, Sherlock didn't pull away. He noticed that Watson's lips were chapped, probably from the harsh winter cold, whereas Holmes' were soft, perhaps because he didn't go out much, but the feeling was not unpleasant.

The doctor did not seem to sense Holmes' aversion, and carried on, his arms sliding down to wrap around Sherlock's waist so he could pull the shorter man even closer. Sherlock didn't know what to do with his hands suddenly, so he placed them on Watson's shoulders steadyingly.

As a warm, not entirely uninvited to tongue slipped into the detective's mouth, Watson seemed to gain a little more confidence. He untucked Sherlock's shirt and pushed his hands up underneath the fabric, his cold fingers grazing skin that burned hot beneath his touch. Sherlock felt his own face grow increasingly warm, from the fire that they stood only mere feet from, and from the increasing fervency of Watson's kisses.

He broke away finally, unable to breathe, and after a short pause John started kissing down his neck, and then across his collarbone, and then his hands retracted themselves from beneath Sherlock's shirt and began hastily undoing the buttons as his lips continued to travel farther down, never ceasing their soft caresses. Sherlock couldn't help the gasp that escaped from his lips as he felt teeth graze his skin, and then bite at the tender flesh around his nipple. There was a pain deep in his abdomen, a fierce, sharp ache that could be nothing but unwilling desire.

Watson stripped him of his shirt entirely, and then started to unbutton his own with one adept hand. He used the other to guide Sherlock's hand to his own trousers, an unspoken suggestion for him to undo his belt and unzip his fly. The dark-haired man swallowed hard, hesitant, as his trembling fingers struggled to unfasten the belt. He was so flustered that even this simple task was difficult for his genius brain.

Leaning forward, John chuckled in his ear. He grabbed at the waistband of Sherlock's pants, causing the detective's large, dark eyes to widen as he was yanked forward by his belt. It would have been insulting how quickly the doctor was able to conquer his belt, if not for the fact that Sherlock's mind was racing, his heart palpitating, his entire body so hot that he felt like he was burning alive and now Watson was biting his ear, pushing his trousers down slightly, touching things that hadn't been touched in God knows how long. It made him almost painfully hard, despite his reluctance, and when he felt Watson's rough hand grip his manhood, it was enough to make him moan, out of pleasure and relief. His mind was rebelling, however, and he wanted nothing more than to push his friend away, to lock himself in the darkness and emptiness of his own apartment, but it was too late because Watson was finally undoing his own pants with one hand while stroking Sherlock rapidly and out of rhythm with his other rough, calloused hand. He finally managed to find a beat, as the clock ticking loudly in the background provided a perfect metronome, and Sherlock didn't think he could ever hear a clock and be at ease ever again.

Sherlock knew he should do something, to reciprocate in some way, but his hands had clung back on to John's shoulders, his nails digging into skin, holding on like his life depended on it. As he came onto John's stomach, he bit down on the taller man's shoulder to stifle his moans, and raked his nails across his back, creating long, bloody scratches. It was enough to send Watson over the edge, and Sherlock hadn't even realized the light-haired man had been stroking himself until he came all over Sherlock's abdomen as well, groaning loudly with his release, and then trailing kisses along the other man's neck and chest.

"I love you, Sherlock," Watson said against his skin. "I love you so much."

Holmes didn't even know what to say, because despite what had just happened, he didn't feel the same way. But it must not have mattered to Watson, because he bent down and picked up Sherlock's shirt, using it to wipe them down, while the detective stood still, feeling drained. John was such a good man, because while the detective stood in his stupor he pulled Sherlock's pants up for him, guided him over to the couch, and told him to go to sleep as he covered him with a blanket.

He watched tiredly as Watson put his shirt back on and then went to get some tea. He went and sat by the fireplace, and that's where Sherlock saw him as he was dozing off, his mind strangely at ease, because his friend was still here, and that was all that mattered.


	4. The Morning After

**Hello everyone. This chapter is very short, and not much happens, but I wanted the next part to be separate, so I'll have to make due. This had been sitting around for a couple days now, but I haven't had the chance to edit and post it! You have all done a very good job in the past with waiting for updates, so I ask that you still remain patient in regards to chapter releases! For these next few days I won't promise much, because time to write will be short and far between.**

**Warning: This chapter is safe, but the next will possibly contain teh sex0rs, of the JW/SH variety!**

**P.S. please forgive the strange terms I use in replacement of sex, smut, and porn, I am rather awkward!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its settings and characters, that privilege goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. **

Watson awoke the next morning in the chair by the fireplace, his book still open on his lap and his tea cold. Holmes was gone, but Gladstone was still there. If the peculiar man hadn't stepped out to take the dog for a walk, where had he gone?

The grandfather clock across the room said it was nine. It was well past breakfast, but John was famished, and decided to have something to eat while he waited for Sherlock to return. He put on his shoes and grabbed his cane, to head downstairs and prepare himself some food. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind if he borrowed the kitchen, as he had been in the habit of doing it when he lived here, seeing as his work hours were sometimes irregular.

The thought of his current housing arrangement brought thoughts of Mary, and he excited at the fact that he had just cheated on her. He felt a crushing guilt- even if he was in love with Sherlock, that didn't mean he could go messing around. He was still a married man!

John would be sure to send a letter to Mary and depart from their marriage before he and Sherlock went any further. It was only the right thing to do.

As he traveled down the stairs to the kitchen, breakfast smells still hung in the air, making John's stomach growl ferociously. He hurried on to the kitchen, only to find that breakfast was still on the stove, being kept warm.

"Ah, you're finally awake!" Mrs. Hudson said, bursting into the kitchen. "Would you like me to fix you a plate? You must be hungry."

"That would be very kind of you, madam," Watson replied as she was already walking briskly over to the stove. "Do you happen to know where Holmes went, by any chance?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "No, I'm afraid I don't. He rushed out of here much earlier this morning, saying he had some urgent errands to attend to."

Watson frowned. "That's strange. He didn't have anything to do that I know of. You don't think he's avoiding me?"

The older woman handed him the plate piled on with food. "I don't know why he would. But why don't you worry about that later, and enjoy your breakfast for now, dear?"

John ceded, and excused himself upstairs, saying he wanted to have breakfast by the window in the apartment. He didn't want to sit downstairs and bother Mrs. Hudson anymore than he had to, he told himself. But he knew that in reality he was going upstairs to wait for Sherlock.  
>-<p>

Meanwhile, Holmes was, indeed, avoiding Watson. When he had awoken that morning, and had seen his friend still there, asleep by the fireplace, he had been bombarded by thoughts of the night before. He had fled that place as if the devil himself had reared his ugly head, and was now wandering about aimlessly.

They couldn't be friends anymore, that much was clear. Either that, or Watson had to stop being in love with him, which would be a highly unlikely turn of events. But as it was now, Sherlock was a mess. He didn't feel the same way, and yet, he kept imagining Watson doing all these things to him, and it was making him nervous—and not in a good way. Something had to give, but Sherlock didn't know what yet.

When it reached ten in the morning, he knew John would be up by now, if he hadn't been hours earlier. Sherlock knew the old boy would still be there, awaiting his return. The detective wanted to stay out all day, and maybe go home once he knew the other was asleep, but knew that would be impolite. Besides, he would have to face this sometime.

He returned to 221B Baker Street, his shoulders set with tension as he entered through the door and into the lobby. Mrs. Hudson was dusting, and Sherlock wanted to congratulate her on actually doing her housework for once, but was simply too tired and stressed to muster up enough sarcasm to pull it off.

"Mr. Holmes," the old landlady said curtly, nodding in his direction. "I hope your errands went well."

"They did," he replied just as abruptly, peering at the apartment door at the top of the stairs. "Is the old boy up yet?"

"Yes, and you just missed him, in fact. He had to rush off to see to a critically ill patient."

Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him. He could prolong the awkward encounter he and Watson would inevitably have for at least another few hours. But his burden had merely been lessened, because there was still that underlying guilt that came from intentionally eluding his best friend's presence.

However, he would muse over his situation more later. At the moment, he could really do with some down time. Perhaps another hit of cocaine was in order, to calm his nerves.


	5. Bedtime Intruder

**This ending is a bit gooier than I intended, but I am satisfied with it. I wish I enjoyed writing my college papers as much as I like writing silly fan fics, maybe then I would have finished the narrative assignment I was supposed to be working on rather than this. But oh well, procrastination is a blessing as it is a curse.**

**Warning: No smex in this chapter, but there is extreme amounts of man-on-man fluffiness**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Sherlock Holmes series or any of its characters. Although I like to imagine that I own RDJ.**

It was in the dead of night when Watson finally returned to the apartment on Baker Street. He had spent the entire day tending to a patient who, despite being near death, had pulled through in the end. The patient was stable now, and in the hospital, so John could at last relax.

His back hurt from sitting propped up in the chair the night before. He walked over to the couch, dropping his cane, hat, and coat along the way, but was devastated to find when he reached it that the sofa was covered in files and books and lab equipment. Sherlock had either been trying to straighten up for once and had failed, or had run out of floor and table space so had started using various pieces of furniture as substitutes. John presumed it was the latter.

The fair-haired man sighed heavily. He had nowhere comfortable to sleep, at least not in this apartment. It would, perhaps, be easier if he just went back to the house that he and Mary shared. She had not yet returned, after all.

Watson was on the verge of gathering his things from the floor when he heard a thump, and then pattering footsteps on the floorboards. A moment later, Gladstone appeared before him, and after regarding him with a disgruntled snort, went to lay on the rug before the fireplace.

It was then that an idea struck Watson. Gladstone was sleeping out here. That meant there was an entire half of Sherlock's bed that was not being used. But did John dare? It was only a bed, after all, and John had no other intention than to sleep.

Watson crept to the back of the apartment, where the bedroom was, cringing slightly every time a board creaked too loudly from beneath his foot. He pushed the door to Sherlock's bedroom open enough to slip inside, and then shut it solidly behind him, not wanting the dog to get in later that night- or morning, he should say.

The bed with its plush red covers looked welcoming from across the room. A head of tussled dark hair could be seen poking up from the blankets on the far side, so John pulled back the covers on the nearest side and slid in. He sighed contentedly at the warm mattress that awaited him, and the all-too-familiar scent of Sherlock that emanated from the pillow and blankets. It was paradise.

John froze up when Sherlock's soft snores halted suddenly, and felt his heart stutter when the other man rolled over. But then Holmes shifted closer, his arm searching for warmth and finding purchase around Watson's waist, and the detective snuggled into his side and began breathing deeply once again.

The doctor turned into Sherlock's embrace, allowing himself to cherish that closeness that would probably never be experienced again from the reclusive man. After a few moments of sheer content, Watson drifted off into a deep slumber, thoughts of Sherlock dancing in his head.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke in the morning feeling refreshed for the first time in a long while. He felt warm in his bed, and for once was not so eager to leave it.<p>

But then he started assessing things. He assessed the fact that it was still dark outside, so the sun could not have been the thing to wake him. He assessed the arms that were wrapped around him, that were clearly not his own. He assessed the deep snores that could be heard above his head, emanating from a face that was buried in his hair. At last, he pulled back and assessed the face of his best friend, John Watson, who had apparently snuck into his room, and had seen fit to sleep in his bed.

Holmes tried to slip from the arms that held him, but any way he moved caused an uncomfortable amount of friction. He did not see any way of getting out of this position without waking Watson, so he threw caution to the wind and pushed the other man's arms from around him and leapt from the bed.

However, John did not awaken. There was a hitch in his snores, but he merely rolled over to take up the entire bed and resumed his peaceful slumber.

With a sigh, Sherlock crept around the bed. He was tired. Not just sleep-deprived tired, but also tired of being foolish. Seeing John in his bed, by the light of the moon, looking beautiful and vulnerable in a way that Sherlock had never seen before, really made the detective realize that there was more to their relationship than friendship. He was not a man to let others take advantage of him, after all. The other night had been an insight into the feelings that he harbored for the other, that were now being uncovered, and it scared him a little, how intense they were. Sherlock was not accustomed to loving things, especially not people.

As carefully as he could, Sherlock maneuvered his way onto the bed, shifting John's sleeping form so they were tangled together again in the middle of the bed, with John's arms once more wrapped around Sherlock and his chin resting on top of the shorter man's head. Sherlock heard the other man sigh happily.

"I'm glad you came back to bed," John mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Goodnight, Watson," Sherlock replied. "And... I love you."

Holmes felt Watson smile into his hair. "I love you too, you strange, strange man."


End file.
